


You Got Me Good

by nevertothethird



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, POV Male Character, Veronica Mars Holiday Gift Exchange 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevertothethird/pseuds/nevertothethird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clean slate. New Logan. <i>Oooh, pretty blonde.</i></p><p>Or, </p><p>Logan sees the same woman every day while out for his morning run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Got Me Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steffx621](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steffx621/gifts).



> Written for Steffx621 as part of the 2015 VM Holiday Fic Exchange. She wanted fluffy Logan x Veronica with a Christmas feel. Don't let the mention of Halloween at the start of the fic throw you. And Merry VM Holiday Day!
> 
> Recommended listening would be Ingrid Michealson (feat. Storyman), [You Got Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Orq5sZXfGo). It has this bouncy, romantic, conversational feel that I think works for this iteration of Logan and Veronica. Also the inspiration for the title.

It begins on Halloween. Months later, when Logan goes over that first encounter in his mind, he decides it’s actually all Mac’s fault. Which means he should buy his dear friend a fruit basket or something. But then Veronica walks out of his bedroom, ready to hunker down on the couch for a day of Netflix binge-watching, and he decides he should upgrade that fruit basket to a bottle of bourbon. Because there aren’t enough apples in all the world.

* * *

 He notices her while running the tail end of his second loop on the 3.2 mile lake path near his home. Normally Logan prides himself on being a respectful runner – sharing the loop, so to speak. If he’s running with headphones, he takes one out and keeps to the right, allowing others to pass. But on this particular morning he’s distracted and has both earbuds in. Mac’s words from the night before, where she insisted he hadn’t purchased enough candy for the trick or treaters, are on repeat. He could already hear Mac’s voice in the event they did run out: “I’m not going to say I told you so, but know it’s implied by my heavy sigh.”

 

He’s been excited about Halloween ever since he bought the large Craftsman house eight months prior. The house and the way he intends to celebrate is all just so fantastically _ordinary._ He now lives in the kind of neighborhood that promises a parade of miniature Wonder Women, and cowboys, and zombies. He loves the deck that faces west and is bathed in sunlight on spring days. The insulated garage he turned into a gym. The easy access to the highway that gets him and Mac to their downtown office space in less than fifteen minutes. And the lake three blocks away – an almost unnaturally tranquil respite in a city already bathed in green – with its perfect running path.

 

In the neighborhood Logan grew up the celebrities and pseudo-celebrities would, for one night only, crack open their security gates and invite hordes of children to come trick-or-treat. Maids would be stationed at the door handing out the candy while their employers partied in San Diego or LA. Pumpkins, professionally carved, lined walkways. And the wealthy denizens would find a way to write off all the expenses as charitable donations.

 

This year promises to be different. ‘Grade My Ass’ might have been a half-formed idea in college but with Mac’s help over the years they turned that idea into a credible, and fairly lucrative, family of websites. After graduation it took little prompting to convince Mac to work for him full time and even less prompting for her to agree to oversee development while he acts as CEO.

 

Nine years after their successful college experiment and he and Mac are reestablishing themselves in the city many have dubbed the new Silicon Valley. For the past seven months they’ve been readying the launch of their newest web subsidiary, ‘Date My Ass.’ While they’re not making close to that sweet, sweet, Amazon lucre, they’re doing well enough that Logan was able to buy place of his own without dipping into his trust fund. Mac called dibs on one of the rooms and half of the house before he even signed the closing papers.

 

Logan finds it ironic that for the first time he is living with a woman and it’s not remotely romantic. It can’t be when one of his reasons for leaving California was the fresh start a new state promised. His on-again off-again relationship with his sometimes best-friend sometimes worst enemy was approaching borderline Sid and Nancy proportions. They agreed that if they wanted to salvage their friendship there had to be time and separation. And Logan resolved to use that time and separation to take a break from dating entirely. At least until the launch of ‘Date My Ass,’ scheduled for after the New Year.

 

“Three bags of candy,” he thinks. “That’s enough.” He runs several paces further and then groans. _Fuck._ It’s definitely not enough. He’ll have to go pick up a couple more bags. Or maybe he should get full sized candy bars? Then he and Mac could –

 

It’s not until someone passes him on the left, edging dangerously close to the busy road that borders the lake, that he realizes he’s been taking up the entire width of the running path. Based on the glare the woman shoots him she’s been trying to get by him for a while now and resents having to face oncoming traffic to do so.

 

“Sorry!” he yells after her.

 

She continues sprinting but throws up a hand in acknowledgment.

 

The woman must be running close to a seven minute mile because she’s exponentially increasing the distance between them. He increases his pace, hypnotized by her blonde ponytail as it swishes from side to side. The black running tights she wears, perfectly molded to her ass, move with every bend of her muscles and he almost trips on a tree root as distracted as he is.

 

He’s tempted to increase his pace further and pass her in turn but the street that will take him back home is a block in front of him. He and Mac have an eight o’clock meeting scheduled with an investor and an extra twenty-five minutes to run another loop isn’t something he has time for. So when he hits the necessary point he veers to the crosswalk and heads up. The woman, and her running tights, continue around the path without looking back.

 

 _Good lord._ With each step he reminds himself why he moved to Seattle. _Clean slate. New Logan._ There’ll be plenty of pretty blondes come January. This one can’t be that special.

 

Over the following weeks it becomes clear she’s as much a creature of habit as he is. He notices her more days than he doesn’t but he’s determine to keep his commitment. He’s been single for seven months now. Another three won’t kill him. Also, Mac bet him $150 he wouldn’t last to New Year’s and he’s determined to prove her wrong.

 

Still, he starts taking the loop in the opposite direction because there’s nothing wrong with being friendly. At least this way he can make eye contact.

 

His first attempt at making (totally platonic) contact is one of those little half-hearted driver’s waves as they pass one another. She nods in return.

 

After a few days he’s bolder, adding a broad smile to the wave. It seems to startle her. When he does it again a few days later, she looks behind her. Like maybe the gesture was meant for someone else. The next day she rolls her eyes before he even waves but then, almost reluctantly, returns his smile.

 

The morning of Thanksgiving is the game changer. He and Mac are hosting dinner for a few friends and he’s determined to send his calories into deficit before indulging in a ridiculous amount of carbohydrates. After a month of seeing the woman three to four days a week, he recognizes her silhouette long before they’re in close proximity. As they approach one another she takes a deep breath.

 

Then she smiles, wide and open, and it’s so distracting his pace slows substantially.

 

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she greets, and continues on her way.

 

He’s startled both by the greeting and the sound of her voice, lilting and bright in the early morning. He finds himself staring as she retreats and continues her loop.

 

_Holy shit._

 

The sound of a voice shouldn’t be powerful enough to make him lose his breath but that’s precisely what’s happened.

 

Her acknowledgment sends a rush of adrenaline through him as he finishes his loop. If he runs fast enough they may pass each other a second time. There’s a voice in his head that suspiciously sounds like Mac’s reminding him their website has yet to launch. He ignores it. The image he makes as he steps around the typical branches and debris from the previous night’s rainstorm, beaming at every person he passes, must be startling. He’s hoping each next face will be hers, but apparently he’s not lucky enough this morning to hear her voice and see her twice.

 

When he makes it home ten minutes later, Mac is in the kitchen standing in front of the stove, yelling at someone over the phone.

 

“Yes, I did that.” Logan sneaks into the kitchen and peers over Mac’s shoulder where she’s frowning at a pumpkin pie. “I did that too but it –“ She jiggles the pie pan and a bit of the filling sloshes up and over the side of the pie crust. “Damn it.”

 

“Is it supposed to shake like that?” Logan knows it isn’t. Guesses she’s on the phone with her mother trying to figure out _why_ it’s liquid rather than custard. But, hell, he _wanted_ to have the whole dinner catered. Mac was the one who stubbornly insisted making it themselves.

 

She glares at him but he hears Mac’s mom laugh through the phone line.

 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Mackenzie!” He kisses Mac on the cheek and backs away as she swings a potholder at him.

 

“Why are you so chipper?” she asks.

 

“It might be because my apple pie came out perfectly.” She scowls and Logan laughs, doing a little twirl in the kitchen as he makes his way to the cupboard to retrieve a coffee mug.

 

Mac huffs and looks back down at her pie. “Yeah, mom, I’m here. Wait? I have to roast the pumpkin and then cook it _again_? Why would anyone do that?”

 

He stifles a laugh into his mug, but by Mac’s look she heard it. Logan pats her on the head as he passes. “A caterer is probably looking good right now, huh?” When she goes to kick him, he moves quickly out of the way and into the living room.

 

“The pilgrims did terrible things on this holiday!” she shouts after him. “Maybe come back from your shower a little more somber.”

 

He can still hear the exact tone of the woman’s voice wishing him a happy Thanksgiving. With a memory like that somber isn’t within reach.

 

Dinner turns out significantly better than expected. Mac sorted out the pie problems and her second one comes out perfectly. In addition to his dessert, Logan also managed to roast the turkey _and_ make an edible stuffing. With their guests, mostly friends from work, bringing the sides the whole day is fairly stress free.

 

It’s that point in the evening where the group could leave the dinner table – their couches and chairs substantially more cozy – but there’s a comfortable camaraderie that has settled over the dining room. After another bottle of wine is emptied Wallace, a software engineer he and Mac work with, stands up with a groan.

 

Logan protests. “What happened to you kicking my ass at Halo?”

 

“Another time. Picking my sister up from work and then we’re headed to the airport.”

 

“Your sister the FBI agent?” Mac asks.

  
Wallace nods. “Veronica Mars is her name; national security is her game.”

 

Logan lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Well, with a name like Veronica Mars they _had_ to recruit her.” He sits up in his chair. “And who said you could take vacation, huh?”

 

Wallace backs out of the dining room. “She did,” he says, pointing to Mac.

 

“Guilty.”

 

“Dry your tears, boss man. I’ll be back in a couple weeks.”

 

The weather the rest of Thanksgiving weekend is that perfect Seattle clear-and-cold which makes running both a chore and a delight. Logan hates it for the first ten minutes but gets caught up in it – the frost on the grass, the mist clouds of breath, the slight tightness in his chest from breathing the cold air. It’s nearly enough to keep him from wishing he’d worked out in his home gym. And to make up for the fact he doesn’t see his running mate at all over the long weekend.

 

It’s not cause for concern – a lot of people leave town for the holiday weekend but it suddenly occurs to him she could leave the city tomorrow, move away forever, and he’d never know. It’s possible he doesn’t see her because she’s visiting family. But it’s equally possible her long-term boyfriend proposed on Thanksgiving and they eloped. Which shouldn’t matter because she’s merely a stranger he’s friendly with – and the website launch is still two months away.

 

Logan resolves in that moment to say something the next time he sees her. Even to just introduce himself. Say hello. There’s nothing _romantic_ about saying hello. It’s just good manners.

 

Another week passes and there’s still no sight of her. The weather this time of the year is unpredictable at best. Running in the kind of rain that makes you feel like you’re getting spit on is not for the faint of heart. This is about the time people in the city move their exercise indoors and he wonders if that’s what is keeping her away. Short of visiting every gym in the city there’s nothing to be done but keep showing up at the same time and place.

 

It helps that they’re slammed at work. Along with the Date My Ass website, they’ve been working on a large scale upgrade to their mobile app. They’re still a small enough company that Wallace being on vacation puts a strain on the team.

 

When Wallace returns the following week he walks into their staff meeting to a smattering of applause and Logan takes a deep breath. It still stuns him that people _want_ to work for his company. For him. They have a small but mighty work force and he feels responsible for them in a way that is probably linked to issues from his childhood.

 

Still, despite the distraction of work, he know it’s been exactly fifteen days since he’s seen _her._ It’s depressing how he’s stopped paying as close attention to the people he passes while running.

 

This particular morning he’s brooding over a nasty disagreement he had with his mother over why he would not, in fact, be back to Neptune for her annual Christmas party. The impulse to use his words as a weapon, gutting her for her weakness and failures, clawed at him as they spoke. He hates that it still hurts when he thinks of his family. That he’s twenty-eight and all he really wants for Christmas is to not be the son of two narcissistic people. That, despite how much he loves his found family, he longs for more.

 

He’s set a hard pace for himself and his lungs ache with the effort. He started out too hard too fast and contemplates walking the rest of his second loop. At the very least he needs to slow down. As he follows the bend of the lake he fears he truly _did_ push himself too far because now he’s hallucinating. He squeezes his eyes shut but when he opens them, his running buddy is still there. Which means, _fuck,_ it’s really her.

 

When she sees him, she smiles. It’s not the wide grin he’s seen from her a time or two but a shy little thing that teases the corner of her mouth. Like she’s unsure. He’s a little disoriented because in her prolonged absence he concluded she was probably honeymooning in Tahiti with her wealthy husband named Chauncey.

 

It’s not until she passes him that he realizes he basically ignored her. It’d be easy to keep running in the direction he’s going and just catch her the next morning. His whole body aches and he’s only a mile from his house. If he turns around now and follows her, he’s adding a mile to his run when he already feels like dying.

 

He also owes Mac some money because his heart is beating too fast to deny he’s halfway to falling in love with a stranger. He looks up to the sky and groans.

 

“What’s a little more death,” he thinks.

 

He turns around quickly and sees she’s already more than three-hundred yards in front of him. Trying to catch up with her is something new and he didn’t realize just how fast she was. Her steps are light and quick and she must be some sort of professional athlete because this is _ridiculous._ Her speed is ridiculous. Also, those running tights she always wears are ridiculous. Especially when he’s got an up close view of her ass as it moves.

 

Every triumphant statement from every sports movie he’s seen runs through his head.

 

_Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever._  
Left side. Strong side.  
WE. _ARE. MARSHALL!_

 

The woman possesses both excellent running form and etiquette. She hears him approach from behind and moves to the right, giving him enough room to pass. He smirks, remembering a day two months prior where he hadn’t extended the same courtesy. He doesn’t take advantage of the extra space, rather slowing his pace to match hers so they’re running more or less shoulder to shoulder.

 

She darts a glance his way, wary and confused. When she recognizes him she smiles and shakes her head.

 

He smiles back. “Hey.”

 

It’s then he discovers she was holding something back because she looks ahead and taps into an extra reserve of energy. He feels her speeding up, and he pumps his legs to keep with her. _Damn_. All he wanted to do was flirt a little and she’s really making him work for it.

 

The image of her, laughing on the beach with a bronzed man (Chauncey fake tans), while their chocolate Labrador frolics in the waves, flashes in his mind and he runs faster.

 

 _Like hell._ He’ll pay Mac $200 if he has to. Chauncey must be stopped.

 

He can’t remember the last time he’s sprinted like this. She looks over her shoulder, checking to see if he’s keeping up, and laughs when she sees him straining behind her. If anything she runs faster and he doesn’t understand _._ How can someone that short move that quickly?

 

“Chop chop!” she yells.

 

They pass the landmark that lets him know he’s a mile from his place which means he’s been running in a full out sprint for about six and a half minutes. Call him weak but he can’t do it anymore. He still wants her number, but he can’t ask for it if his lungs shrivel up and he swallows them. He practically falls to his knees in a grassy knoll beside the running loop, rolling onto his back and squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe on her next loop around the lake she’ll take pity on him and call an ambulance.

 

He takes a few heaving, deep breaths and hears the sound of slow footsteps on gravel. He turns his head to the side to make sure he is far enough off the path and then closes his eyes again.

 

“You okay?”

 

She may have only spoken to him twice before but he knows it’s her. “Don’t I look okay?”

 

“You look red. Really red.”

 

His laugh comes out more like a groan.

 

“I actually didn’t know someone’s face could be that color,” she says.

 

His answering chuckle is a raspy thing, rattling in his rib cage. “It’s my Irish blood.” Deep wheezing breath. “And the color is carnelian, not red.”

 

She lets out a small huff of laughter and that’s enough to coax a smile from him.

 

“What about burgundy?” she asks. His eyes are still closed but he feels her lie next to him, her shoulder brushing against his.

 

“Too purple. Cardinal?”

 

“Puce?”

 

“Vermillion?”

 

“That can’t be a real color.”

 

“Marc Jacobs would have your head.”

 

They lay in silence – both of them taking slow, deep breaths. It’s nothing really but Logan likes the simplicity of the moment – the casual intimacy.

 

“Come on.” He hears her shuffling and she bumps his arm as she stands. When he peels open an eye it’s to find her extending a hand. “Stretch now or cramp up later.”

 

“Too late. I now exist on a plane where my body is a single cramp.”

 

She snorts, shaking her head at him as she digs her heels into the ground and pulls him up. They stretch in silence for a few seconds, each shooting glances one another’s way.

 

Logan clears his throat. “So are you a superhero or something?”

 

“Shh. My secret identity.” She finishes her hamstring stretch and hops up and down a few times, shaking out her hands. “My job requires me to stay in shape.”

 

He raises an eyebrow and she jabs a finger into his chest.

 

“That’s enough from you,” she says.

 

“I didn’t say anything.”

 

“You were thinking it.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“Please. I know you’ve been checking out my ass all these weeks.”

 

He shrugs. “Quality assurance. But, if you’ve seen me seeing you that means you’ve been checking me out, too.” Logan turns, hitching up his shirt a little and allowing a better view of his backside. “So what do you think?”

 

He watches from over his shoulder as she bends down, tilts her head, and frowns. “Is your ass concave?”

 

“It’s not which way it curves that’s important but what you do with it.”

 

Her lips form a soft little smile and she stands up straight. Logan turns around to face her, an eyebrow lifted in expectation. She sidles a little closer and he sways into her space.

 

“You’re a little rough around the edges.” She looks him up and down, unabashed in her perusal. Her eyes linger on the lines of his chest and his biceps. He’s absurdly proud when she purses her lips and nods a little. “- but I can work with it.”

 

He smiles, stepping even closer. She tilts her head back to look up at him. “Is that right?” he asks.

 

“Yeah.” She sways towards him and then pulls back. “For starters, you need a new pair of shoes. Then maybe we can work on your stride.”

 

“My stride?”

 

She nods. “Your strike puts too much pressure on your heel.”

 

“That sounds like a problem.”

 

“It is. A big one.”

 

Logan presses a finger to his lips. “So you want to train me?”

 

“I’m a sucker for a charity case.”

 

“I can be a charity case. Is it going to take a lot of work?”

 

She sighs, her shoulders rising and falling with the large breath she takes. “You’re kind of a mess.”

 

“Which means we’re going to have to see a lot of each other.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Two. Three days a week.”

 

“Sounds about right.” The toes of their shoes touch and she stumbles a little. She reaches up to grip his shoulder and steady herself.

 

“Would nutritional advising be a part of this arrangement?” he asks.

 

The look on her face is almost indulgent. Her hand still rests on his shoulder and she slides it down to play with the hem of his sleeve. “What?”

 

He swallows. “Well, take today for example. I just ran a little over seven miles. I know I need to replenish my calories but with what?”

 

“Good question.”

 

“But if,” he holds up a hand against any protest she might make, “and just hear me out, you walked with me three blocks that direction we’d end up at an alehouse which happens to serve brunch.” _And has an ATM next door._

 

“How ‘bout that.”

 

“How ‘bout that. Then you could guide and instruct me as you will.”

 

“And you’re just going to listen to me? Not even put up a fight?”

 

This time he’s the one to look her up and down, pleased to see she’s fighting to hold back a smile when they make eye contact again. “I make no promises. But what would be the fun in that?”

 

She tilts her head, weighing her options and his offer. He’s just this side of self-assured and is pretty confident she’s going to say yes. But clearly the woman likes to see people squirm.

 

Finally, she breaks into a grin and shrugs. “Why not,” she says, and pulls her cell phone from the back pocket of her running pants. “I just have to text my brother and let him know where I’m going.”

 

“My name is Logan,” he says, and clears his throat. “Logan Echolls. In case your brother asks.”

 

“Thanks,” she says, and slides her phone back into her pocket. There’s a moment of hesitation, he can tell, as she decides whether to give a stranger her real name. “I’m Veronica Mars.”

 

It takes him a second to place where he’s heard that name before. It’s been a few weeks after all, and when he does he almost asks to see her ID. Because she said she was texting her brother which means – and that connection is just ridiculous enough that he laughs, shaking his head.

 

“Care to share with the class?”

 

“Thank you for the offer, Veronica Mars, but I think I’ll wait to reveal that mystery.”

 

She smirks at him. “Okay Logan Echolls. You try to hold onto your secrets.”

 

He doesn’t have time to respond before she’s resumed running around the lake in the direction of the restaurant.

 

“I thought exercise was done for the day?”

 

She turns around, barely slowing down as she runs a few steps backwards. “Pity that. Seeing as I was hoping to work up even more of a sweat.”

 

It’s like there’s a tinder box under his feet and Veronica has just lit the match. He takes off into a sprint and her eyes widen as he quickly closes the distance and then passes her. Funny what a little incentive can inspire a man to achieve.

 

Christmas Eve is twelve days later and it might be too soon for Logan to suggest they spend the holiday together but it apparently isn’t too soon for her to shake him out bed at seven in the morning for a pre-sunrise run. Or, once he’s looked outside and accounted for the four inches of new snow, to coax her back to bed, pulling the running tights from her legs as she burrows into the pillow. Or for him to brave the snow to walk her home and then stay at her place for a while.

 

They don’t exchange gifts, but he kisses snickerdoodle dough off her lips after she walks him to the door. She calls him an asshole when he comments on the sex hair she’s rocking but helps him put on his scarf anyway. They make plans to meet the morning after Christmas and walk in the snow. It’s all so perfect he doesn’t spare a second thinking of the lost best. Or the look on Wallace’s face when he opened Veronica’s door and found Logan standing there.

 

“Goodnight, Veronica Mars,” he says, kissing her once more.

 

She rolls her eyes, and that’s perfect too. “Merry Christmas, Logan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta, [scandalpants](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalpants/profile). Chauncey, and his Labrador, is for you my darling.
> 
> Thanks also to the wonderful ladies in my writing group. You helped me a) trust my instincts, and b) help me keep a small problem from turning into a big problem.


End file.
